Post by Douleur nó Shahrizai on Jul 9, 2005 14:25:36 GMT -5
I was outside with my mother as she tended to her garden. The sun was warm and thirst crept up on me. Before I could even open my mouth to tell her, my mother smiled and said, "You must be getting thirsty. There is a pitcher of fresh water in the kitchen."
I rose from my kneeling position in the soft, damp earth and made my way into the house. Inside the air was cool and still smelled of the sweetbread my mother had baked for breakfast earlier. The smell grew stronger as I entered the kitchen. The water pitcher was sitting on the table. I went to the cabinet to get myself a glass. As I reached for the goblet I realized I had dirt from the garden clinging to my fingers.
I moved to the sink and rinsed the earth from my hands. I returned to the cabinet. My fingers closed around the stem of a water goblet and I turned to the table with a spin. My hand must have been wetter than I thought because I lost my grip on the goblet and it fell towards the floor. I reached out, trying to grab it before it hit, but it evaded my fingers. The goblet collided with the floor and shattered. My left hand was quite close to the glass as it exploded and shards were driven up into my palm.
I felt the glass slice through my skin and embed itself there. My breath caught in my throat and my heart fluttered. My eyelids closed and without thought I dropped to my knees.
My entire being became centered on my injured palm. I felt the heat of my opened flesh against the cool of the glass. The pain flowed from the wounds into my fingers. I could feel it curling and pooling there, a creature to be protected and nourished. I held myself still not wanting to scare away my new-found companion, fearing the loss of the completeness I suddenly felt.
I do not know how long I knelt there, but I heard my mother cry out my name and felt her scoop me up in her arms. Vaguely I was aware of her rushing me out of the house and to the chirurgien's office. I was trying to keep myself as still as possible so that I would not lose the feelings I had been immersed with while in the kitchen.
The world around me came back into focus when the chirurgien grasped the largest piece of glass with one of his tools and drew it from my flesh. Tears began to roll down my cheeks. The chirurgien was very kind and he assured me it would all be better soon. He was very gentle, and the tears were not due to the injury but because I knew the way I had felt in the kitchen was gone.
As he bandaged my hand, the chirurgien asked me why I had not called for help as soon as I was injured. "Because I didn't want them to come out," was the only way I could think of to explain my actions. The chirurgien's head jerked up and he looked at my mother intently. I turned my head towards my mother and saw a look I had never seen before on her face. It was a mixture of both realization and sadness.
My mother took me home and put me in bed for the rest of the day. My siblings tended to me as they returned home from their daily pursuits. I could hear my parents talking in serious tones long into the night. They kept their voices low so I could not make out the words, but my father's voice traveled from the sound of urgent denial to one of resignation. My mother's voice never varied from calm insistence.
Two days later my mother dressed me in my finest holiday wear and took me to meet the Dowayne of Valerian House.
I rose from my kneeling position in the soft, damp earth and made my way into the house. Inside the air was cool and still smelled of the sweetbread my mother had baked for breakfast earlier. The smell grew stronger as I entered the kitchen. The water pitcher was sitting on the table. I went to the cabinet to get myself a glass. As I reached for the goblet I realized I had dirt from the garden clinging to my fingers.
I moved to the sink and rinsed the earth from my hands. I returned to the cabinet. My fingers closed around the stem of a water goblet and I turned to the table with a spin. My hand must have been wetter than I thought because I lost my grip on the goblet and it fell towards the floor. I reached out, trying to grab it before it hit, but it evaded my fingers. The goblet collided with the floor and shattered. My left hand was quite close to the glass as it exploded and shards were driven up into my palm.
I felt the glass slice through my skin and embed itself there. My breath caught in my throat and my heart fluttered. My eyelids closed and without thought I dropped to my knees.
My entire being became centered on my injured palm. I felt the heat of my opened flesh against the cool of the glass. The pain flowed from the wounds into my fingers. I could feel it curling and pooling there, a creature to be protected and nourished. I held myself still not wanting to scare away my new-found companion, fearing the loss of the completeness I suddenly felt.
I do not know how long I knelt there, but I heard my mother cry out my name and felt her scoop me up in her arms. Vaguely I was aware of her rushing me out of the house and to the chirurgien's office. I was trying to keep myself as still as possible so that I would not lose the feelings I had been immersed with while in the kitchen.
The world around me came back into focus when the chirurgien grasped the largest piece of glass with one of his tools and drew it from my flesh. Tears began to roll down my cheeks. The chirurgien was very kind and he assured me it would all be better soon. He was very gentle, and the tears were not due to the injury but because I knew the way I had felt in the kitchen was gone.
As he bandaged my hand, the chirurgien asked me why I had not called for help as soon as I was injured. "Because I didn't want them to come out," was the only way I could think of to explain my actions. The chirurgien's head jerked up and he looked at my mother intently. I turned my head towards my mother and saw a look I had never seen before on her face. It was a mixture of both realization and sadness.
My mother took me home and put me in bed for the rest of the day. My siblings tended to me as they returned home from their daily pursuits. I could hear my parents talking in serious tones long into the night. They kept their voices low so I could not make out the words, but my father's voice traveled from the sound of urgent denial to one of resignation. My mother's voice never varied from calm insistence.
Two days later my mother dressed me in my finest holiday wear and took me to meet the Dowayne of Valerian House.